Angie looked at each of them one by one. Emma watched her—really watched her—and saw that it wasn't just the usual dismissive look of a gatekeeper. It was the look of someone who knew exactly who they were because she was the one who had been sending them away over and over again. Angie looked down at her shoes.
"Yes, sir," she said. "They've all been here multiple times."
The silence that followed made the whole sidewalk feel like it was shrinking.
"WHY HAVE THEY NEVER BEEN SEEN BY THE RECRUITING TEAM?"
He didn't say it quietly. The question boomed off the building, and people walking by actually stopped or sped up to get out of the way.
Angie kept her head down. "I was told not to send any new people in by Mr. Colson," she muttered.
Mr. Jonas stared at her. "Look me in the eye and say that again."
She did. It took her a second to find the nerve, but she looked him right in the face and repeated it, word for word. Whatever else you could say about Angie, she wasn't a liar, and Emma actually felt a weird spark of respect for her right then.
Mr. Jonas turned to his assistant. "Cancel all my meetings until noon." He paused, then added in a voice that was way too calm, "And you know what to do about the other situation."
"Yes, sir," the assistant said, his fingers already flying across his tablet.
Mr. Jonas turned back to the small group. For a second, he just looked at them—at the portfolios, the polished shoes, the perfect hair, and the looks on their faces. They were people who had prepared for this moment without ever actually believing it would happen.
"Alright," he said. "Let's get started. I'm a busy man, so your time will be short, and I'm sorry for that. But you'll all be seen today."
Emma finally let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding since she woke up.
"That's fine, sir," she said. "We'll make the most of whatever time you have."
He looked at her then—not just a quick glance, but a real, solid look. It lasted a beat longer than she expected.
"I'm sure you will," he said.
"And then, after the auditions, I thought that was it," Emma said, coming back to the present. "I thought it was just one of those things where you get your five minutes of fame and then go back to real life. I came home and tried not to get my hopes up." She paused. "But then, two hours later, the studio called me. Apparently, Mr. Jonas called them himself. The girl who was supposed to be the third lead in one of their shows got let go this morning. He recommended me."
Kira just stared. "He called them himself?"
"He called them himself." Emma gave the biggest, most honest smile Kira had seen from her in months. "I went straight to the studio. There were only a few scenes today—they just wanted to get me started and film some stuff before they lost the light. So I just got back." She spread her hands out. "I'm the third female lead, Kira."
Kira didn't even have to think about it; she just stood up, crossed the room, and hugged Emma. She held her tight, the way you do when words aren't enough to say how much you mean it.
"I am so happy for you," she said, and she truly was. She held onto that feeling.
Emma hugged her back just as hard. When they pulled away, Emma was glowing—that look you get when a really long, hard wait finally ends.
"Thank you," Emma said. "It's late and I have to be back at eight, so I'm actually going to bed early for once." She laughed softly. "Don't tell anyone I said that." She squeezed Kira's hand one last time and headed to her room, pulling her hair down as she walked.
Kira stood there in the living room after the door shut.
The fairy lights over the window just kept blinking. Outside, the city was still the city—huge, loud, and full of a million people chasing dreams in the dark.
She stood there for a long time. And then, quietly, where no one could see, she broke a little. Not because of Emma's win—she would never be bitter about that. But the math of it was just brutal. One year. Emma had been at this for one year. She'd walked up to a producer on a Tuesday and came home a star.
Kira had been at this for four years.
Four years of being an extra. Four years of rooms that smelled like bad coffee and cheap carpet, of casting directors who looked right through her, of practicing lines in a mirror because it was the only work she could get. Four years of watching everyone else's star rise while hers stayed exactly where it was. She'd started to wonder if it was moving at all, or if she'd been chasing a light that was never coming closer.
She walked to her room slowly. She sat on her bed and just looked at her hands for a while. Then she looked at the ring on her finger—the one she never talked about. It wasn't a symbol of love; it was a reminder. A piece of metal that told her *you already survived the worst thing that ever happened to you, and you're still here.* She pressed her thumb against it.
When she started to cry, she kept it quiet. She was an expert at being quiet.
She let herself cry for a few minutes and then stopped, because she was an expert at that, too. She washed her face in the bathroom, changed into her pajamas, and climbed into bed.
She'd get up tomorrow. She'd try again. She'd keep going because the alternative—going back—was something she couldn't survive.
She turned out the light.